


Il fin di chi fa mal

by imustgofirst



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Guilt, Jealousy, Lingerie, Shame kink, Sibling Incest, Virginity, naughty zee, religious shame, sisters literally doing it for themselves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 12:16:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17787251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imustgofirst/pseuds/imustgofirst
Summary: The fabric rips like tissue, providing little satisfaction. She tears with her bare hands until the pieces become too small, and then proceeds with her fabric shears.This will indeed be hard to explain.(My response to the "Hilda in lingerie" and Valentine's Day prompts at together-as-sisters.)





	Il fin di chi fa mal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UbiquitousMixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/gifts).



> "Il fin di chi fa mal" more or less means "the end of evildoers." It's from Da Ponte's libretto for Mozart's Don Giovanni, and the whole verse goes, "Questo e' il fin di chi fa mal, e de' perfidi la morte all vita e' sempre ugual!" (Rough translation, bad guys get what they deserve.) Basically, all the boring "good" characters are rejoicing after Don Giovanni himself has been dragged down to hell for his lust. Seemed appropriate.
> 
> This was supposed to be a simple little fic about Hilda in lingerie. It got out of hand, and kind of weird -- much like its author. Enjoy.

She finds the wrapped box tucked among the worn volumes in Hilda’s trunk of romance novels. This will be hard to explain later. Not since _Fanny_ _Hill_ has Zelda shown any interest in salacious fiction; there is no possible half-baked excuse for her to be rooting around in here on a damp morning at the tail end of January.

She slits the pale gold, embossed paper with her thumbnail, careful and precise. If this turns out to be innocent, she can rewrap it using nothing fancier than a bit of tape and elementary magic, leaving Hilda none the wiser.

It’s clearly not a book, the dimensions too large and the weight too light. She feels the telltale crunch of tissue paper as the silver and gold inner box gives beneath her touch.

The lid is off in an instant. She stares.

_ This  _ is what that sniveling weatherman-come-fast-food-peddler had given Hilda last night when she’d supposedly “broken things off”?

_ “Like heaven,”  _ Zelda snarls viciously, roughly yanking the diaphanous garments from their nest. She holds them up to the light, and her face is terrible to behold. The Gorgons had nothing on an infuriated witch.

It’s bridal lingerie.

_ Mortal  _ bridal lingerie, in sickeningly pure white.

There is a plunging Swiss-dot teddy, cloyingly adorned with ribbons, and a sleeveless floor-length robe. For a half-second she doubts and fumbles to examine the labels, but no. They are Hilda’s mortal size.

She considers throwing them on the floor and stomping all over them.

Then she considers the vision of her sister wearing these things for the man who selected them for her.

The fabric rips like tissue in her hands, providing little satisfaction.

She tears with her bare hands until the pieces become too small, and then proceeds with her fabric shears.

This will indeed be hard to explain.

Broken and blind with fury, she doesn’t care.

For a moment, she seriously wonders if Hilda has fucked him and been lying about it. Once she dismisses that thought, she wonders if Hilda intends to fuck him, wants him to think she still  _ might _ fuck him, or merely wants a memento of the latest man who wanted to fuck her.

None of the possibilities makes Zelda feel any less like her lungs have collapsed.

Since Zelda snapped last week after a mere two centuries of yearning, pulled Hilda into her lap once Ambrose and Sabrina had left the breakfast table, and passionately kissed her sister, they have exchanged several more kisses in stolen moments, and Hilda — unprompted — announced her intention of ending what she was doing with Cee (which, she assured Zelda, wasn’t much) and most likely quitting her job as well. 

Last night she had come home hiding the box behind her back. Later, she knocked on Zelda’s door, told her that everything had gone well and Cerberus was very nice about it. He was so nice, in fact, that Hilda would be staying on at the diner. 

Before Zelda could protest, Hilda tucked her red-gold hair behind her ear, told her how very beautiful she was, and softly kissed her mouth.

Hilda has seemed content with soft, careful kisses and hands at waists, and Zelda has tried with all her might not to assume this is headed in any particular direction, no matter how much the older witch wants it to. 

She has lived these past centuries without ever having kissed Hilda, so  _ only _ kissing her should tide Zelda over for at least a few more. 

Zelda likes sex, but she thinks she could actually make do with kissing for the rest of her life, provided she’s kissing her sister.

Because Hilda has never once shown any inclination toward actually  _ having _ intercourse, although she giggles breathily when she reads about it. At the very beginning of her midwife training, when she’d learned all the particulars, her bright eyes had bulged and she’d said, “Oh,  _ that’s  _ it, is it?” as if she were rather appalled. 

So now that their relations have taken a turn, Zelda has been applying her considerable mental powers to  _ not _ thinking about sex and Hilda in the same sentence. The last thing she wants it to be is an obligation. How very patriarchal and revolting.

But now someone else has given Hilda lingerie, and she has accepted it, kept it. Hidden it.

Zelda is sick with jealousy.

Fortunately, Hilda comes in before Sabrina gets home from school, and if Ambrose hears her distressed cry and “Zelda, what have you  _ done?”  _ — Well, he’ll never say.

Zelda stalks into her sister’s bedroom, too angry to be ashamed. Arms folded imperiously, cigarette burning, she hisses, “You  _ lied  _ to me. You told me you broke up with him.”

And Hilda wide-eyed, angry and confused and on the verge of tears. “What in the realms do you mean? Of course I — it wasn’t even really breaking up. We only went out a few times.”

“I find that exceedingly difficult to believe, sister.”

Hilda gazes morosely at the satin and lace debris spread across the bed and floor. “You thought that was —? No. Zelds, honestly. We kissed a few times. He put his hand in a breast-adjacent area once and I pushed it away. I’m pretty sure he could tell I wasn’t that into it, as the kids say.”

She doesn’t sound angry, really, only sad. It makes Zelda feel much more stupid and infinitely worse.

“He’s a nice bloke, and I suppose I enjoyed the attention. Don’t exactly get a lot of that, do I? But it was hardly the romance of the century.”

“Then why did he give that —  _ that  _ to you?”

Hilda pouts a frown. “I’ve just told you he didn’t. Are you incapable of listening, or only incapable of believing me?”

“Then  _ where _ , pray tell, did it come from?”

“I  _ bought  _ it!”

Oh, Zelda really  _ is  _ stupid.

“ _ You  _ bought it?  _ Why _ ?”

Hilda blinks a few times. Her face is very still, like she’s been slapped and is stunned. “I thought it was pretty. Not that it matters now.” 

“It was wrapped,” Zelda persists.

Hilda flushes. “I was embarrassed, so I told them it was a gift, and, well. — What did you think, that I’d gotten it from Cee and then rewrapped it?”

Zelda knows the color has drained from her face. Stupid indeed, not to have noticed that glaring detail.

“And you intended to… wear it?”

“That’s what people do, isn’t it? Is the idea so disgusting?”

If Zelda tries hard, she can probably invent some new way of making this worse.

“What? No, of course it’s — unless you’re wearing it for  _ him _ , and then —"

“For me. And for you.” Hilda shrugs, pivots on her heel. “Doesn’t matter now.”

It matters very much.

The younger sister leaves Zelda alone in Hilda’s bedroom, shuts her inside as she heads downstairs and begins preparing dinner.

Zelda wants nothing more than to cry hysterical, lusty, tantrum tears.

Hilda bought virginal white lingerie.

To wear for  _ her. _

Zelda could have peeled it away from her golden skin, kissing every inch.

She could have worshipped her with words, hands, mouth. Perfect Hilda. Perfect hips. Perfect tits. Perfect heart.

“ _ I thought it was pretty.” _

Fuck.

Eloquent Zelda chokes on words of apology. They sound wrong, insincere, passing her lips, even when she means them with every fiber of her being. 

She’s better with actions.

While Hilda is busy in the kitchen, she takes the hearse and drives into town. She can’t think too much about her own earlier actions, or her skin burns with shame; she can’t think too much about what Hilda’s intentions with the lingerie had been, or she burns up in a different way.

The pretty little shop is on a back street, as if it needs to be hidden away. Totally in keeping with the ethos of this Puritan town. Behind her customary dark glasses — which she  _ does _ know attract more attention, thank you; that’s the point of vintage glamour — she rolls her eyes. Sometimes she thinks it’s unfortunate that big cities are  too populous to host the more grisly aspects of coven life. Too many prying eyes, too few deserted forest glades.

The store still has a nice selection, she notes with appreciation. When she’d moved back home after Mama and Papa died, Zelda had dropped in occasionally — she has always liked wearing pretty things, feeling sumptuous fabric against her skin. But times had changed. Not even Zelda Spellman was inclined to walk the floor with a colicky baby while wearing a silk peignoir or garter belts. And later still, the things she already had held up well enough, and no one was looking. No one she cared enough to impress.

She realizes it must have been over sixteen years since she last darkened this doorway. The owner, whom she recognizes by sight, has softly curled gray hair and lushly padded curves, and narrows her eyes slightly as she smiles a greeting. It’s a response witches are accustomed to. Some part of the woman’s brain has stored a memory of Zelda decades ago, and can’t reconcile it with Zelda of today, who looks exactly the same.

Zelda removes her glasses and smiles warmly, part of the charm to dissipate the memory. 

The narrowed eyes relax to their natural almond shape. “Good afternoon. Please don’t hesitate if there’s anything I can help you find.”

“I’m looking for something —“ the word sticks in her throat — “bridal. White. Or ivory.”

The woman gives her a quick, professional once-over. “34B, am I right?”

Zelda recoils. “It’s not for  _ me _ , for S — heaven’s sake. I’m rather long in the tooth for all that claptrap.”

The woman looks her over again, a little more slowly, frowning. “Not at all. Why would you say that? — But you’re looking for a gift.” She gestures. “If you want something traditional, this is a lovely option.”

Zelda is familiar with the items, having hacked them to bits. She can’t look directly at them as she flips through the rack in search of the right size, then asks the woman if she might have one in the back.

“I could order it for you. I sold my last one just last night.” She hesitates. “But this is a small town. You might be shopping for the same bride, and you wouldn’t want to duplicate, would you?”

“Oh no, it’s for my sister.” And then, because even to Zelda’s ears that sounds odd, and mortals probably don’t buy lingerie for their sisters any more regularly than witches do, she adds, “I mean your buyer may have been my sister, as we’re attending the same, ah, shower.” That’s what humans call those wretched, stilted affairs, isn’t it? Zelda hasn’t attended one since the thirties.

The woman’s smile returns full-force. “Petite, lovely blonde with a charming accent? You don’t have to answer, I see the resemblance in the eyes. Perhaps you’d like to look at something different? After all, a bride can only wear so much lingerie in one night!”

They don’t have anything else that would be right for Hilda; she sees that at a glance.

She’s not certain what comes over her, but when she leaves the store half an hour later, she has a bag filled with purchases. The shop owner is wise and discreet enough not to remark that they will all fit someone who is, say, a 34B, and perfectly set off translucent skin and strawberry blonde hair.

When Hilda goes out to work in the garden or to do a shift at Cerberus’s, Zelda settles herself at her sewing machine. She makes all of her own clothes, after all, and Hilda’s, although Hilda won’t let Zelda choose the designs or materials — obviously.

She doesn’t use a pattern, working instead from her imagination and measurements she knows as well as her own. It’s delicate work, and there’s no time to order fabric from the European suppliers she prefers. She repurposes Mother’s bridal veil for the lace (a quick spell transforms it from black to ivory), half expects a hex to reach her from the next realm.

Much of it must be hand-stitched. She doesn’t mind. It gives her a way to pass the time while Hilda is at her job, mitigates the fact that she is in  _ his _ presence. Zelda feels real satisfaction in the knowledge that Cerberus will never see Hilda wear these exquisite things.

Of course, neither may Zelda, now.

She tells herself that it doesn’t matter; she is doing this purely to make it up to Hilda. In two centuries of living, there are no do-overs, but she can right the scales in at least this one thing.

It’s a goodwill gesture, she reasons. She tries not to obsess over how each silky inch will lie perfectly against Hilda’s body, how it would feel to run her hands over the silken fabric and feel warm, delectable curves beneath.

It takes her two weeks.

She cringes away from any sort of presentation. She places the finished garments on Hilda’s bed, where she is sure to find them.

Hilda doesn’t mention the gift.

Neither does Zelda, although she certainly doesn’t forget.

It’s a Thursday. Sabrina is at the academy, Ambrose is also at the academy (the only place other than the mortuary where his sentence allows him to spend time with Luke), and this is one of the nights when Hilda works. So when Zelda enters her bedroom and the light switches on before her fingers touch it, she starts.

“Do you know what today is, sister?”

“It —" She has difficulty finding her voice; it comes out strangled. “Thursday.”

Hilda laughs at her and she doesn’t know why, but Hilda’s eyes are light. Zelda hates being on the outside, smiles anyway.

Hilda has the lingerie in her lap. Zelda looks at it and swallows in apprehension.

“You made these for me.” A statement, not a question. Zelda nods. Her heart beats too fast because she feels that this is a crossroads of some kind, and if she has ruined this before it really began, part of her will shrivel and die.

“They’re exquisite. It must have taken quite a lot of work, even for you.”

Not for the first time, Zelda wishes she could read minds, because Hilda’s conversational tone is driving her mad.

“Why?”

“Because I — I owed you an apology.”

“You could have used your words. Oh, Zelds.” Hilda shakes her head and sighs, equal parts melancholy and fondness. “Only you would find this an easier alternative.”

The older witch feels her cheeks heating. “That wasn’t the only reason.”

Hilda’s Mona Lisa smile is the barest quirk of her lips. “I know, darling.” 

It’s not just the endearment that suddenly has Zelda flustered; it’s the newly detected tone. 

“Can you tell me the other reasons?”

She is speaking to her elder sister exactly the way she used to, and sometimes still does, speak to Sabrina when she was naughty and recalcitrant. 

Zelda’s cheeks and ears are hot, and she needs to sit down. Blindly, she finds the edge of the mattress.

“I hoped you might still like to wear something like that for me,” she replies, starchy dignity undermined by her flaming skin and wide eyes.

“For you, hmm?” She is teasing now, and Zelda can’t keep up with a Hilda who is different, unknowable. The blonde reaches out and takes her hand, thumb softly rubbing the fine skin on the back. “Can you ask me?”

She can barely breathe. She hates her sister, is in thrall to her. “Hilda,” she manages, “sister, will you? For me?”

Hilda has arranged this, every movement and word choreographed to teach a lesson, and there is a very real possibility that the lesson is  _ No.  _ No now, perhaps no forever, because Zelda’s curse is to live beside but never touch the one she yearns for.

She knows Hilda can read the fear in her eyes. She also knows she deserves it. 

“Yes, love.” Hilda rises, then stoops to stroke Zelda’s cheek and lightly kiss the corner of her mouth. “All you had to do was ask. Wait here; I won’t be a moment.”

Zelda nearly swoons, weak from relief and anticipation. 

Instead of swooning, she walks on shaky legs to the wardrobe. Quickly, she disrobes and changes into one of her new purchases — the one she bought for this occasion when she was insisting to herself that she never expected this to happen.

It’s not that she wants to steal Hilda’s limelight — not at all, for once. But this is is special. A certain level of attire is required to show respect.

When Hilda returns, and the anxious minutes have felt like an hour to her sister, Zelda is perched on the foot of the bed, her hair twisted up, wearing a simple, short crimson nightie. One spaghetti strap has already fallen off her shoulder.

“Oh,” Hilda says shortly, as if the sight has taken her breath. “Oh, Zelda. I love you in red.”

But Zelda waves her off. “Let me see,” she demands. The way her voice shakes is less than imposing. But Hilda has bundled up in her customary bathrobe for the trip down the corridor, and if she doesn’t get it off instantly, Zelda cannot be held responsible for her actions.

Hilda casts her eyes down nervously, but turns to let her sister remove the bathrobe that looks like a dead muppet.

The robe that Zelda made her is so much fancy nothing, an open waterfall front of lace, the rest loose, sheer tulle. Beneath it is the gown, a romantic fantasy with a corset-style bodice and straps of scalloped floral lace. The legs are cut high, like the lingerie Hilda had purchased, but Zelda has carefully stitched more tulle from the bottom seam so that the material falls almost to the floor.

The demure cut is belied by the fabric. It is incredibly sheer, elegant but daring. The lace pattern and billowing material give the illusion of antique modesty, but really provide precious little coverage. Zelda can see the darkness of Hilda’s nipples, the tantalizing shadow of hair at the juncture of her thighs. It’s so hard to tear her gaze away from the ripe swell of Hilda’s breasts, the curve of her belly, the luscious flare of her hips.

The color against her bronze skin is perfection. 

“Do you like it?” Hilda asks shyly. “Because I like it. No one has ever made me feel so beautiful.”

That loosens her tongue.

“You  _ are  _ beautiful. It doesn’t matter what you wear.”

Hilda blushes again. “I believe you when you look at me like that. Like you want to devour me.”

It’s Zelda’s turn to blush.

“Do you know why I chose white?”

Zelda bites her tongue rather than let herself give the most obvious answer, instead says, “Because you’re pure.”

“Because _you_ _think_ I am. Don’t you think I know what you want? What you’ve always wanted?”

“What do you mean?”

“You want to  _ ruin _ me, sister.”

Zelda’s vision darkens, she gasps for breath, and she can no longer play innocent. She feels herself sway. 

Hilda’s voice continues, relentless, as if it’s inside her head rather than in her ear.

“Desecrate. Defile. Ravage.” 

Shame coils, squirms in her belly. She was damp before, but now her sex is clenching, gushing.

She’d managed to convince herself for many, many decades that this was all her darkest desire boiled down to: the need to rip away Hilda’s light, sully her, drag her irretrievably into the muck.

That’s not all of it, not even the core. They wouldn’t be here right now if it were. 

But, oh — the filthy wrongness of it still leaves her unable to sit still.

“I know, Zelda.” Hilda slips the tissue-paper-thin robe from her shoulders, lets it glide down her arms. “Have me, sister. Take me.”

The sound Zelda makes isn’t a whimper or a moan or a shout, but all three mixed with a prayer. 

“The Dark Lord can’t help you now, love. Your darkness is too much even for him.”

There are tears on her cheeks, sticky wetness on her thighs.

“It doesn’t matter how pristine you are on the outside, how you follow the letter of the law. You can’t kill it, no matter how many times you bury me. You can’t pray it away or whip it out of yourself.”

This is her downfall, and Hilda sees her, sees her very soul.

“Only I can help. Don’t you know that by now, sister?”

Somehow Zelda has ended up on her knees, the appropriate position for penitence, or for committing a mortal sin.

“Let me help.” Hilda gentle, beneficent. Zelda isn’t touching, isn’t even that close, but can feel her warmth.

Zelda is the handmaiden, sweet Hilda is the queen, and Zelda is going to feast on her. 

“Tell me you want this,” she demands. It comes out guttural, desperate.

“Look at me.”

Hilda’s tone is different suddenly, unwavering with conviction, and Zelda does look. Blue eyes find blue.

“I have always. Wanted. This.”

Zelda moans as she wraps her arms around Hilda’s hips and presses her face into her soft stomach. It’s like falling into Hilda’s warmth, her generosity, her Hilda-ness, so different from Zelda’s being that she almost can’t bear it.

Her lips drift to the outside of one thigh just below the ivory fabric and she kisses softly, sucks. Hilda’s muscles tremble, and her hands find Zelda’s head, both holding her in place and holding herself upright.

Zelda does nothing but this for minutes, and then gradually begins to work her way down. Her lips caress, her tongue laps, her teeth scrape. She is in love with the shape of Hilda’s thighs, with the tender backs of her knees, her strong calves. 

When she reaches Hilda’s ankle, the younger witch half sits, half falls onto the bed. Zelda’s teeth worry her Achilles tendon, nibble, and then she sucks so hard that Hilda cries out.

“Oh,” she gasps, one hand over her eyes, “oh, Satan, is that  _ supposed _ to feel so good?”

Zelda’s eyes shine. Her busy mouth doesn’t answer in words. She scratches a fingernail over Hilda’s arch, sucks a toe into her mouth, and the rush of sensation is so unexpected and overwhelming that Hilda is already shifting impatiently, clenching and unclenching her fists, breathing hard.

“Please,” she whimpers.

Zelda’s nails score the backs of her thighs, down and up and down again.

“Please, sister. Your mouth.”

Zelda’s whole body throbs deep and low with lust. She will give Hilda anything she asks for in that tone, would rip her own heart out and offer it on a silver platter.

Zelda stands, and Hilda’s face falls with disappointment until she realizes what her sister is doing. She unties the ivory ribbons between Hilda’s breasts first, then sets to work on the hidden hook and eye fasteners, knuckles rubbing and then fingers caressing every centimeter of newly exposed skin. Zelda watches herself work, and Hilda watches Zelda, enthralled by her expression of hunger.

Hilda didn’t specify what she was to do with her mouth. She doesn’t complain when Zelda parts the two sides of the gown and immediately takes as much of one breast as she can into warm, wet heat.

Hilda expects frenzy, gets reverence.

Regardless, she must have known her sister would be good with her mouth.

“Zel-da,” she whines, fingers twisting in strawberry blonde hair, pulling her so close that Zelda can’t breathe.

Hilda is delicious, so ripe and filled with potential. The curve of her thighs was made for Zelda to slide between them. One fingernail scratches through short, damp curls.

“Don’t tease,” Hilda insists, eyes flashing with real anger, and Satan, she is just too tempting. Zelda intended for this to be long and slow, to take her time pushing Hilda to the brink over and over until her precious little sister was begging to be fucked. But she hadn’t accounted for the earthy, heady scent of Hilda’s wet cunt, or what it would do to her to be able to trace swollen, pink lips, to spread them apart and see the unholy flush awaiting her attention.

“Oh, my darling,” she croons, which is surely not what she meant, is not even the sort of thing she would think, let alone voice. But Hilda is lighting up, irritation gone, and Zelda feels invincible.

Fingers stroke her neck, and this is adoration. “Please, sister. I need you.”

Zelda has always loved to be needed.

Hilda wantonly arches into the first stroke of her tongue before jolting away, and Zelda is surprised by the intensity of the pace her hips set, by the fingers twisting in her own hair and holding none too gently, by the frankness of a sister who grinds against her mouth. Zelda squeezes her thighs together, rocks into the mattress. 

“More,” Hilda husks out; Zelda’s cunt spasms. She obliges with aching slowness, teasing swollen lips, and as Hilda pants above her, Zelda spasms with anticipation. She enters the younger witch slowly, withdraws more slowly, and as Hilda writhes, so does she. Sweet Lucifer, it’s as if she were fucking both of them — an unholy miracle? The Dark Lord’s blessing of their union? 

Two fingers, thumb rough on clit, and Zelda comes with Hilda. Zelda is Hilda. Zelda is Hilda is Zelda. 

“Praise Satan,” Zelda exults. Her lips shine wet with Hilda.

—

Hilda’s lips tracing each knob of her spine nudge Zelda back into wakefulness. Blearily she lifts her head to peer over her shoulder. The snow’s ambient glow filters through the window, letting her see blonde hair, generous curves, and her own nightie pushed up as far as possible to bisect the whitest of skin, bare ass on display.

For a split second she feels decadent and content. Then it all comes rushing back.

“Stop,” she protests, voice thick with sleep. 

Hilda looks up through her fringe to meet her sister’s eyes. Instead of stopping, she licks a broad stripe down to the top of Zelda’s buttocks, and the older witch can’t help the way her body tenses with anticipation.

“I said stop,” she repeats more sternly.

Hilda lifts her head, but replaces her mouth with one hand. She crooks an elbow, rests her chin on her palm, and looks criminally appealing. Zelda is weak.

“I’d hoped we could skip this part.”

Hilda is drawing abstract shapes on her lower back, and the words don’t make sense. “What?”

“The recriminations, angst, gnashing of teeth, etc.” She keeps her tone light, but her eyes are serious.  _ I know you _ , she’d said. “I couldn’t leave it ‘til morning.” Morning is for scrambling eggs, reading newspapers, getting Sabrina off to school.

“We can’t ever do this again, Hilda. No one can know.”

“One doesn’t necessarily follow the other.”

Hilda is calm, and Zelda knows she is at a disadvantage. Hilda has been awake, thinking, refuting her anticipated arguments.

“Even in the Church of Night some things are beyond the pale.”

“Yes, and those things change depending on who’s in charge, who’s writing canon law. We eat children, we don’t eat children, we do eat children.”

“Don’t be absurd. We aren’t talking about eating children.” Her voice lacks the bite she would like, no doubt because Hilda is now massaging the top of her thigh.

“Exactly. We are talking about something much less serious that concerns no one except you and me.” She sits up suddenly, leans over Zelda’s pillow, and Zelda rolls so they’re face to face. “Have you forgotten your lessons?”

“It seems evident that it’s you who have forgotten your lessons.”

“No, I mean why our kind have always been called Weird Sisters.”

“Because originally there were no warlocks, only witches.”

Hilda nods. “Sisters,” she reminds. “Sisterhood is the true source of magic. The rest of it is just ecclesiastical rubbish.” Both of Hilda’s hands frame her sister’s face, tipping it back to give her better access to the place where her pulse beats strongly just below the surface of her exquisite skin. She kisses gently, then laps, then suckles, like Zelda did earlier. Zelda’s heart beats harder. “A bunch of men being in charge, this being forbidden, the idea of anyone being ruined, all of it.”

“I must have made you like this,” Zelda protests with genuine distress. “Like me.”

“Yes, because you’ve succeeded so well at making me like you in other respects, haven’t you?” Hilda’s grip tightens until their eyes lock. Zelda’s eyes are darker than Hilda has ever seen them, and there is a vulnerability there that she can almost touch. 

It’s an important moment. Too bad Hilda is so distracted.

“Satan,  _ look _ at you,” she whispers. Zelda is an unholy beauty, and when she is disheveled like this, Hilda feels a tightness in her chest and a hunger between her legs. “I’ll never get enough of you.” 

Without really thinking, she rolls, pulling Zelda with her so the redhead sprawls atop her and Hilda can reach her better. One hand falls to the globe of her ass, palming it through crimson silk. 

“Hilda, we can’t.”

“We can. We did.”

Zelda gazes back in mute entreaty.

“All done with me, now that I’m used goods?”

It’s supposed to be teasing, goes over like a lead balloon. Zelda’s eyes fill. 

“I love you, Zelda. Let me love you.”

Zelda can’t refuse her, not when it’s something they both want so badly.

Not even if they burn in the pit for a thousand years.

It’s slow, quiet. A different kind of intimacy from earlier, but no less intense. They kiss and kiss, Hilda clinging tightly to Zelda as the older woman rocks against, atop her. It feels like she is being sheltered. Protected.

She is supposed to be the protector.

She pants through a climax with Hilda’s fingers inside her, gentle but relentless.

“Oh, my love. I can’t tell you how precious you are.”

She’s not even allowed to enjoy the moment. She is crying again, more tears in a night than in a decade, and Hilda’s eyes sparkle damply.

“It’s still not right.” She can’t stop thinking ahead, planning. Knees on cold stone, praying. Flayed skin, blood on her back. Faustus’s cock in her mouth, if that’s what it takes.

“No,” says Hilda firmly. “No, no, no.” She pries one of Zelda’s hands from the sheet and links their fingers. “None of that. Just this. You and me.”

Hasn’t it always been just the two of them?

Maybe it’s time to stop fighting it. She’s losing anyway.

“You believe in our Dark Lord, so you must believe He made us this way, Zelda. No mistakes, no aberrations.” She pets pale copper hair, strokes down a softly rounded arm. “How about this: I’ll find a way to get myself re-communicated, or whatever you call it, and I’ll attend Black Mass with you every week. Show the whole coven what good little witches we are. Would that help?”

“Maybe,” her sister allows. “How will you manage it?”

“I just will, love.” Lips pressing against Zelda’s forehead, her temple, the bridge of her nose feel like benediction. “I  _ can _ do magic, you know.”

Zelda tries to snort derisively but it ends in a chuckle.  

“Not everything is down to you, Zelda.”

“You’re my younger sister,” she protests, but weakly. The way Hilda is touching and kissing, without any intent as if she just can’t help it, feels delicious. It feels  _ right _ , although she knows she must convince herself its wrong.

“Yes, but I’m 201.” Lips on each of her knuckles, the protrusion of her wrist bone, the goblin pox scar on the inside of her forearm. “All grown up. And I need to make a few things clear.”

“Oh, do you?” Zelda’s usual faux curiosity is ruined by genuine curiosity.

“One.” She holds up Zelda’s finger, an impertinence the older witch knows better than to allow. “The main tenet of our faith is ‘Do What Thou Wilt.’ Therefore, two.” Another finger. “This  _ will  _ happen again. Frequently. And three.” Another finger, and Zelda feels ridiculous. “The next time we play defile the virgin, you get to be the virgin.”

“Over my dead body.”

“No, I’m not into that, and for the record, you’d better not be either.”

“You’re not too old for me to bend you over my knee and hex you, Hildegard.”

“Ooh, that’s better. That one’s got possibilities.”

“Go to sleep, Hilda.”

She stiffens automatically when Hilda cozies up to her from behind, and then figures she might as well enjoy it, given how they’ve spent the last several hours. She’s hardly going to be cast into the pit for liking to be the little spoon once in a while.

“Zelds?”

“Mmm.”

“You still don’t know what today was?”

“Thursday.”

“And?”

“... Honestly, sister, the best day I’ve had in recent memory. Now go to sleep.”

Hilda chuckles and presses a kiss to the nape of Zelda’s neck. “Well,” she murmurs as if to no one but probably to one of her familiars hiding in the rafters, “no one ever said she was conventionally romantic.”


End file.
